The desert didn’t care if you bled.

Hueco Mundo’s white sands drank red like it was nothing. The sky never changed, not even when your lungs ached and your vision blurred from blood loss. You staggered forward, pressing a hand over your ribs where the wound still oozed warm and wet beneath your fingers.

You’d fought your way out. Barely. But you weren’t going to last long — not like this.

And worse: you were close. You recognized the shape of the ruins ahead, the jagged remains of what used to be a battleground, now half-swallowed by the wind. You weren’t supposed to go here. Not unless you were ready to die.

Because he lived here.

You nearly collapsed when you reached the base of the stone ridge, stumbling as a wave of dizziness crashed over you. A sound escaped your throat — low and rough — but you kept walking.

You didn’t knock. You couldn’t. Your body didn’t have the strength. You just collapsed against the cold stone, body sliding down, legs folding beneath you like paper.

A beat passed.

And then — footsteps.

Slow, heavy, deliberate. The kind of walk someone makes when they’re sure they have the upper hand.

“...Well, look what the damn desert dragged in.”

His voice sounded amused, but not surprised. You looked up, barely.

Grimmjow stood above you like a wolf at the edge of a wounded kill. That wild blue hair was the same. The same lean muscle. The same open jacket, all arrogance and threat. His teal eyes gleamed like a blade catching sunlight.

“You got a lotta nerve showin’ up here, lookin’ like that.”

You didn’t respond.

He crouched low, one elbow resting on his knee, the other arm hanging lazy — but his expression shifted slightly as he looked you over. The blood. The bruises. The fact that you hadn’t even lifted your head.

“I should let you rot,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Would serve you right, wouldn’t it?”

Still, you said nothing. Not out of pride — but because you were swallowing the taste of iron in your throat. Your fingers clenched in the sand.

Grimmjow’s expression twitched.

“You’re lucky I hate watchin’ people die slow. Even bastards like you.”

Then everything blurred.

You weren’t sure how he moved you — only that the world swayed once, and then you were lying flat on something that wasn’t sand. It was stone. Cold, but smoother. Somewhere inside. There was a flicker of firelight nearby. And his shadow passed over you again.

The pain made your breath hitch. You curled in on yourself.

“Tch. Still so weak.” His voice was a growl. “How the hell did you end up like this?”

Bandages. You felt them. Something cool on the wound. Alcohol? Your body jerked, breath catching again, and a sharp sound escaped before you could stop it.

“Shut up. You came here, didn’t you?” he said, but he wasn’t looking at you now. He was focused — on the injury, on wrapping the cloth, on not letting you bleed out.

“I oughta gut you for dragging your sorry ass to me. But I’m not gonna let anyone else kill you but me.”

Something in his voice didn’t match the threat. Too quiet. Too… rough.

Time passed. Maybe minutes. Maybe hours. You drifted in and out, aware only of the warmth from the fire and the occasional shuffle of his footsteps nearby. He didn’t leave the room.

Later, when your eyes cracked open again, you found him seated a few feet away, arms crossed, legs stretched in front of him like he wasn’t watching you — but his gaze cut to yours the moment you moved.

“Didn’t die,” he said flatly. “Too bad.”

You stared at him.

His lip curled up, grin sharp. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I didn’t do this for you. I just didn’t wanna deal with the mess if someone found your corpse outside my place.”